


That Night

by story_monger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:10:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_monger/pseuds/story_monger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble of the night Dean carried Sam from their burning house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Night

Dean remembered the way the grass surprised him.

Everything until that moment had been too hot and too bright. Daddy’s terror too sharp and visible, Sammy’s whimpers too needling and fevered, the distant, childish certainly of Mommy hurting, Mommy screaming, all of it too _there_ and too _much_.

Dean remembered nearly tripping, nearly dropping Sam when he left the house and stumbled on the door’s threshold, like something still in the house wanted to prevent him from escaping.

He’d been heaving in breath after breath, holding onto the warm, baby-smelling bundle of Sammy and his eyes had hurt from too little moisture and his lips were chapped, and everything was dry, brittle, hot fear.

Then the grass. The grass met his knees in a small squelch and instantly soaked his pajamas. Dean remembered looking down at the grass, at the cool, damp soil beneath, and wanting to cry.

Instead he knee-walked a few more paces, until he reached the edge of the yard, and lay down in the grass. He set Sammy beside him, listening to him wail uncertainly, the half-hearted mewling that made Mommy say things like “Sammy boy’s trying to figure out how much more hell he wants to raise.” Wry, smiling, Mommy with yellow hair.

Dean pressed his cheek into the grass and listened to the soft bending and crackling of plant fiber, the ooze of groundwater and dew. Better than the sound of fire eating away the home, the home with Daddy and Mommy still inside.

Sammy waved his chubby fists, confused and getting more anxious by the minute, then clumsily turned to look at Dean. His face was criss-crossed by the grass blades; they were tall and Daddy hadn’t mown in awhile.

 _What’s going on?_ Dean imagined Sam asking. _Where’s Mommy? Why are we stuck in the cold, wet grass?_

“It's okay Sammy,” Dean whispered. He reached out and pulled him closer, tucking Sam against him and pressing his lips into the soft down atop his head. He smelled a little bit like smoke. Sammy squirmed, then quieted, and Dean listened to what he suspected must be a bug crawling through the grass beneath his ear. He didn’t move in case he crushed it.

It took ten minutes before sirens and large, smoky hands reached him and Daddy’s hoarse voice whispered that he’d done good, such a brave boy, that he’d done such a good job taking care of Sammy.

Dean didn’t say a word for the ten minutes until that happened, and didn’t say a word for weeks after. He didn’t want to break the soft sound of grass moving against his ear and Sammy gurgling baby nonsense against his chest.


End file.
